Chapter 40
EMBERLINE
Iwoke from my dream, letting my awareness stretch out around me, wondering what had stirred me from sleep.
Most nights, the magic woven into the bones of Dante’s ruined hideaway was a low, steady hum—like a lazy cat purring in the sun. Tonight, that humming had stopped, leaving a sharp prickle of warning along my skin.
The faint glow of city lights snuck through the gaps in the shutters, the warm night air whispering against my arms as I sat up.
The house was empty.
Dante was gone.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, slipping on dark pants and a shirt with quick, controlled movements. If we were under attack… no, my husband would have warned me of the danger, not abandoned me.
That much, I’d learned these past two days.
After Emilia’s party, we’d fallen into a familiar pattern, polishing our knives, choosing our next social event like we’d pick a battlefield.
There had been no more breathless kisses.
No more training room brawls that ended up with me flat on my back and him stretched out on top of me, crushing me beneath his weight and his wild blue stare.
Which was fine, I told myself, since this was only pretend.
There was a chance Dante had gone downstairs to brood. To plan the next step in his still-undefined vendetta against his father.
But the wards were protective, keyed to allow movement in and out, opening just enough to let someone slip through, which meant… he’d likely left the grounds altogether.
I crossed to the window, cringing as the shutters creaked. The night was thick, all damp stone, brackish water, and late-night smoke from some mortal’s cigarette in a passing boat.
Dante stepped out from the narrow alley alongside the house, wrapped in a dark coat, hair unbound and wild around his face. For a moment, he glanced up, as if he felt me watching.
I ducked, holding my breath.
He shoved both hands into his pockets, then headed into the maze of Venice as if he owned this city, while all around me the wards settled back into place, that steady hum pressing against my chest like a reassuring embrace.
I should really stay put, I mused. Whatever he’s doing is probably none of your business.
But I was already moving.
Pulling on a long, dark sweater, I shoved my feet into soft-soled boots, grabbing a pair of knives out of habit—one can’t be too careful—strapping one to my thigh, another at the small of my back, then headed upstairs to the training room.
I had an escape route, one very stubborn door I’d had to rub half a bottle of olive oil on the rusted hinges, just to get them to move. A day spent unraveling the layers of stubborn spells, where even my unsealing charm wasn’t enough.
Tonight, that attic hatch opened with the faintest protesting squeal, and I winced, easing the heavy door up until the braces caught and climbed out onto the roof.
The city spread out around me, gilded in silver beneath a full moon. The dark veins of canals split the staggered terracotta roofs, the distant glow from the Rialto, the soft pulse of lights lining the Grand Canal. Somewhere, a bell chimed, lonely and distant and echoing.
I leapt from tile to tile, muscles coiling and stretching in a rhythm I’d practiced since childhood. Venice was easier to navigate from above. Rooflines connected districts, every neighborhood, if you avoided the skylights as the dangerous traps they were.
My husband turned left at the first intersection, then cut along the fondamenta. He didn’t hurry. I kept him in sight, slipping along ridges and around chimneys, digging my fingers into mortar ridges when I needed balance, never losing sight of my target.
Every so often, his head tilted, as if he knew I was right above him.
I froze each time, willing my heartbeat to quiet.
He crossed a narrow bridge, cut through a courtyard that smelled of fresh laundry and basil. Then I lost him entirely when he ducked under a low archway and vanished into a cut-through so narrow, I couldn’t tell which way he was heading.
“Damn it,” I whispered, rocking back onto my heels, weighing my options.
Maybe he was testing me.
You’re not the only hunter in this marriage, I reminded myself, asking instead—where would Dante go in the middle of the night, alone, moving like he had a destination… like he was headed for a clandestine meeting?
I scanned my surroundings, mapping out the city in my head.
How many times had I met someone on a bridge? The perfect place to see your enemies coming from a mile away, and this city had over four hundred of them. My husband wouldn’t choose any of the popular ones. Rialto, Accademia, Scalzi—those were too visible, even in the dead of night.
But there was a humpbacked stone bridge not far from here, off the beaten path.
I jogged along the edges of sloped roofs, dematerialized over an alleyway, taking the most direct path until the canal came into view, the small bridge rising over the narrow waterway in a single, pale arc.
I dropped flat behind the ridge of the nearest roof, heart pounding.
Two figures stood at the crest, and even at this distance, with the night wrapped them like a shield, I knew them.
Dante, shoulders hunched to make himself look smaller.
Nico Draconi, posture loose yet dangerously coiled, long black braid down the center of his back.
I eased closer until I was at the edge of the roof on my stomach, fingers gripping the downspout. All I caught were fragments of sound. Dante’s brief, humorless laugh. Nico’s inaudible reply.
Then Nico reached into his coat, pulling something out—the size of a folded note. The weak lamplight caught a shiny edge for a heartbeat. Metal? Wax? Glass?
I couldn’t tell.
Dante closed his fingers around the item without even looking, as though he’d been expecting it. As if they’d done this before.
My stomach knotted.
They stood together another minute, embraced, then broke apart.
Nico dematerialized, melting away between one blink and the next.
Dante stayed where he was, alone at the crest of the bridge, hands braced on the stone rail, head tipped back, staring at the stars as if he were begging the gods for advice.
Then he turned and headed back the way he’d come.
Straight toward me.
I jerked back from the roof’s edge, heart slamming against my ribs as I scrambled backward, rolled to my feet, then sprinted along the ridge line. My boots blurred as I retraced my route, speeding over gabled roofs and leaping alleyways, angling for the house.
By the time I slid back through the hole in the roof and lowered the attic hatch, my hands were shaking, fury coursing through me faster than the adrenaline.
I closed everything back up, raised the wards, and raced down to my bedroom.
Stripping off my boots, I dove beneath the cold covers, then rolled onto my side facing the door and forced my body to relax, betrayal hammering against my ribs as I pretended my fucking husband wasn’t meeting with the enemy.
Nico and Dante. Nico and Dante. Nico and Dante.
What did this mean? How many plots were being hatched without my knowledge, while Dante paraded me in front of the Dynasty? Did he even know who killed my father, or was that just a carrot he dangled to keep me compliant?
Trust is a luxury, I reminded myself.
I’d let myself forget that. Somewhere between the training room kiss and the way everything between us had begun to feel so real, I’d started to… soften.
To believe him when he claimed we were in this together.
I’d been a fool.
Every alliance had a price. Every favor could be traded away for something better. Secrets didn’t stay secrets in this Dynasty; they just changed hands.
Soft, careful footsteps landed on the stairs.
His bulky silhouette stopped, outlined in my open doorway, checking to make sure I was still right where he’d left me.
I kept my breathing slow and steady.
Then he was gone, the other bedroom door squealing faintly before closing with a click.
You were a fool, Ember. A fool to think you could trust this male because he bled into a bowl for you or because he kissed you as if you mattered.
Dante had his secrets.
And I had mine.
This is what you chose, I reminded myself. A marriage built on strategy and revenge. None of this is real, no matter how much you want it to be, and loneliness is not an excuse to become weak. My father was killed, and I deserved vengeance.
And Dante had never made any promises, other than to give me a name at the end of this.
A name I still needed, if he hadn’t been lying about that as well.
So, I wrapped my anger around myself like a blanket and pretended it kept me warm.